Swallowed in the Sea
by Arsenic Kisses
Summary: He's done it. Moriarty finally captured him, and captured him good. Moriarty/Sherlock. Things will get rough.
1. Prolouge

This is meant to tease you, you naughty people. It's very Moriarty of me, but hell, I'm not ashamed. Chapters will be much longer after this one. Please enjoy this lovely prolouge.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

When Sherlock awoke, he realized a few things.

One; he was tied to a cushioned chair with thin but sturdy hemp rope, arms behind his back, ankles bound to either of the front legs. Two, his right eye was swollen shut and his bottom lip was split. And Three, Jim Moriarty was responsible for this. The last was not too hard to figure, nor were the first two. The scent of blood, the pain, the distinct texture of the rope that was chafing his wrists and ankles.

Simple.

Childs play.

But, Moriarty, sitting composed on a chair opposite him, well that took nothing but the opening of one's good eye.

" Moriarty," rumbled the consulting detective, his throat thick with sleep and bile.

"Sher-lock." Moriarty replied, his voice not so deep, nor so thick. He winced at the way Moriarty broke his name into two, lilting syllables filled with condescension. Sherlock Holmes swallowed hard enough to clear his throat and he disliked the sickly feeling he felt as the seemingly undetectable mass in his throat slithered down his esophagus. Moriarty watched his Adam's apple bob as this occurred, enjoying it thoroughly.

"I don't want to say I took joy in capturing you- but-." Sherlock's upper lip twitched into a sneer before returning back to his usual expression of analytical non-caring. Jim Moriarty considered this natural reaction and nodded with a noise that rose as he stood, then fell abruptly. Hands in his pockets, Moriarty took the 10 paces that were needed to reach Sherlock. He stared down at him, waiting for the detective to angle his head upwards and glare defiantly at him.

But, no satisfaction came to Jim. Instead, Sherlock Holmes stared into his abdomen, or rather through it, as he didn't wish to engage his captor. He puffed air through his slightly parted lips, miffed but not thoroughly.

"Come along, Sherlock. Look up as ol' Jim." Sherlock, blood congealing on his face, received a backhand that reopened his lip. He fretted the wound, applying pressure with the backside of his tongue. He was breathing a little harder than he would have liked, but it took far too much effort to remain so still and not rub his bound limbs raw on the rope.

"Don't be a bore, Sherlock. I don't like things that bore me." Moriarty, whose patience had great bounds, was staring, calculating and waiting.

"To avoid being base, I'll skip the stereotypical question of what you want with me. Instead"," Sherlock paused then, his lip dripping onto his mid-thigh a single droplet of blood, "I'd like to know what you plan to do now that you have me." Moriarty grasped a handful of Sherlock's hair and made him stare into his eyes.

"All in good time, Mr. Holmes. All in good time." He pulled Sherlock's head back, stared at his neck for a good moment, and then let him go. One more backhand to the formerly uninflected cheek and Jim sauntered from the room, his suit just as impeccable as the moment Sherlock woke up.

Sherlock knew he'd be there for a long while. He knew not how long, nor how long it _had been_ since he'd been tied to the chair. He let his head hang as he thought. Fixated on the blood soaking into his trousers, Sherlock pushed the pain in his face to the back of his mind to think. He could usually get over anything in order to think. But, this moment, bound to a chair and freshly abused: All Sherlock wanted was to sleep. He was stuck, it was a fact. There was no way of escaping at this point in time. He would not give up. He would outsmart Moriarty and get out of this mess. But, one couldn't blame him for a tiny….little…catnap.

Moriarty watched his favorite toy fall asleep from above, smiling. This was by far his favorite possession. He would keep Sherlock Holmes safe and sound, guaranteed. Because when Jim Moriarty wanted something, he got it.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

I tease you, I know. It's with love at the core of it, I assure you.

-Arsenic


	2. And I'm Talking to a Skull

A/N: I made you wait long enough, let's get down to it.

Disclaimer: Nyet, not mine.

x x x x x x x x x x x x

Sometimes Jim thought about letting Sherlock go. Maybe leave a few clues out for the police to find. Perhaps, give that battle-ready doctor a bit of a ring. Then, he thought better of his folly. Why shouldn't he enjoy the spoils of his personal war with Holmes? He had what he had been seeking. With the consulting detective under his thumb, he could take his sweet time breaking him. Making him into the subservient lap dog he craved.

Jim eyed himself critically in the mirror, brushed a fleck of grit off his right shoulder with an abrupt flip of his middle and ring fingers. This was the fourth day he had Sherlock tied to the chair. He had sent someone in to wipe him down and feed him. Make him look less ragged. Couldn't have our pets too unkempt, after all. Taking a few more seconds, he tried to contain himself. Yet there it was; his unabashed glee. So prevalent, so intense, his cheeks puffed and his smile grew. A giggle peeled out of his throat and cut the air like the snap of electricity ripping from a Jacob's ladder.

This was too much fun.

After another moment, he finally took hold of himself, set his smile, and sauntered out to see his captive.

Sherlock had generally needed to piss for a good hour now. He was at the cusp of a decision, the fulcrum of this teeter totter being his pride, when Moriarty walked in. Just as the inclination to throw caution to the wind and piss himself to spare his bladder the pain nearly won over, Jim made his presence known.

"How are we today, pet?" Sherlock glared at his captor, making a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. Moriarty laughed that despicable little laugh, his hands ever so casually sitting in his pockets. Sherlock glared at him, his injured eye healed enough to see out of.

"Do you know what I'm going to do, Sherlock?" The consulting detective thought better than to ask, but as Mycroft had always said, he was far too curious for his own good.

"Pray tell."

"I am going to break you. Make you mine."

"I am not one for that sort of thing, _Jim_." Moriarty smirked devilishly, letting Sherlock have his moment of defiance. These outbursts would become rarer and rarer as the months draw on. At least in the world conceived by Jim Moriarty they would. If he had any say, Sherlock would become the perfect pet. He'd say bark, Holmes would say 'How loud?'. Bite- 'whom and how hard?' Old Jim was tickled pink at this notion, and found himself giggling out loud. This did nothing to help Sherlock's nerves. In fact, as unusually unshakable as he was, he found himself deeply unsettled.

"So," he said, coming down off of his giggle high, "how shall we go about this? "

"Not to sound cliché, but I will fight you."

"Hooo, Good!, " Jim smirked, " Come, puppy. It's time to go to the dog house."

Thirty minutes and 24 seconds later, Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker Street had a dog's collar around his neck and found himself chained to a wall. His incessant need to be clean made his disheveled and dirty state even more unbearable. Look at the dirt under his nails man him squirm mentally. But, the bruises on his face were no longer a startling purple. Indeed, now that they were a rather sickly yellow, Sherlock found it a cause for celebration. Little gifts, he thought, and then proceeded to think of escape.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

At 221b, John Watson was hobbling. No longer psychosomatic, his limp was far more violent and much more painful than it had ever been. After the pool and Sherlock's disappearance, John could only think of his absent colleague since the moment he'd been discharged from the hospital. A fractured wrist atop his injured leg, John was feeling less than perfect.

"Lestrade-"

"I've told you, over and over, Dr. Watson. We've not found anything yet. No ransom, no evidence. The whole crime scene is rubble. Nothing left." This phone call was the fourth of its kind today and Detective Inspector Lestrade had met his wit's end. John pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning against the doorframe between the common room and the kitchen to support his frame.

"If we find anything-"

"Well, look harder!" John was not prone to outbursts, not any like this. This was unlike him. Lestrade took a silence, making John aware of his own personal agitation. It always amazed John how much a silence could say. Sherlock's forays into mutism were often as thick as a novel. John was always somewhere in the footnotes when he decided to return.

"I will call you when I find something." Lestrade said, trying to keep himself cordial but firm. John sighed, mussing up his hair.

"Alright. Just... God, just find him..."

" It's a miracle that you came out of it all alive, Dr. Watson. For him, we'll need a bit more than that."

As they hung up, John look about their flat. Everything that had order was chaos, and the chaos was amplified. John hobbled to the mantle and stared at the skull. Sherlock had said the skull had been a friend._ Who were you?, _John wondered. He leaned his cane against the wall and lifted it from its place, brushing off the dust. He turned it over and over in his hand, drummed his fingers against it pensively. Moving over to Sherlock's chair, he sat it down when his colleague would be. Then, taking the scarf that had been forgotten all those days ago, he coiled it around where it's neck should have been. He stared into it's pit-less eyes momentarily, then turned to sit in his chair.

"Sherlock," he said to the grievously lifeless head, " I pray to God when I find you, you'll look better than this." The skull offered no comforting words, but somehow made his silent hours seems less vacant. John felt he could write more than just a novel now, sitting there. With all that he thought, he was miles beyond. Going to the desk, and picking up the faux-Sherlock along the way, he went to his blog and began to write.

Latest Entry: Sherlock M.I.A, and I'm Talking to a Skull.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

More to come!

-Arsenic


End file.
